by Leslie North
But maybe Arthur would.
He'd told her how hard it was to play a part for the cameras, how exhausted he was by the persona he now saw as a prison. This was his baby, too. His life too.
"Well," she said carefully. "I’ll need to consider, of course. Arthur? What do you think?" She turned to him. Part of her hated how much she wanted him to play the asshole-card and shut this whole thing down. But the bigger part hoped he would cover for her, say the words she couldn’t bring herself to say, even though she knew they were the right ones. Tell them all it was too much to ask, that it was all happening too quickly. That the two of them still had to figure out their relationship without a camera recording every hard conversation and intimate moment.
Her heart leaped into her throat as he started to stand. "You know," he said as he unfolded his long body from his chair. "I'd be a lot more opening to listening to nonsense if it wasn't said to me via a shitty internet connection." He raked his fingers through his hair, then snorted and deliberately swept the proposal in front of him onto the floor. "If you want to talk to me, fly your fancy ass personal jet down here and look me in the eye. You know where to find me."
His eyes fell on Cassandra. She held her breath, hoping he'd say more.
But his eyes slid past her, and he walked out the door.
Cassandra jumped up, all ready to rush after him, demanding to know what the hell was his problem, before Adele's voice from the laptop brought her back to herself. "Can someone please tell me what is going on?" The executive sniffed. "Did he really just walk out of a meeting with Taste?"
"I'm sorry, Adele!" Amy barked. "He's probably just having a bad day."
Cassandra pasted a smile on her face. "That's right," she agreed, and primly sat down again, keeping her eyes wide through the rest of the meeting. But the whole time she smiled; she was fighting back tears.
What the hell was Arthur doing? Was this just another part of his act?
Or had he just been playing tender and caring to woo her last night, and now she was seeing the real Arthur McClellan?
12
Cassandra smiled. Cassandra nodded. Cassandra stood up when everyone else did and agreed that this was all a wonderful idea. Cassandra laughed and made flattering remarks about everyone at the table in turn, and then offered to help the assistant producer pick her wedding colors free of charge after this was all done. By the time the meeting was done, Cassandra had made everyone feel comfortable.
And not a single smiling person had a clue she was ready to commit murder.
Keeping her smile firmly in place, she scooted from the meeting room and made a beeline for the hallway. With a quick glance upward, she counted her steps until she knew with absolute certainty that she was out of range of both the video recorders and the audio pick-ups strung through the hall. They'd know she was going into the bedroom. But they wouldn't know why, she seethed, unless Arthur objected too loudly while she strangled him.
She shut the door with a firm click that was loud enough to make him turn his head her way. She waited for the span of three heartbeats, willing to give him at least that long to state his case.
But he turned back to staring at the water.
Okay, buddy, it's your funeral.
"What." she hissed, "was that?" When he didn't answer, she made a beeline for the deck and planted herself right in his sightline. "Just left me twisting in the wind, huh? Was there a spider in that meeting room you couldn't bring yourself to kill?"
"If you had something to say, you should have said it yourself," he said. The muscle at his jaw jumped as he ground his teeth and looked away from her.
But Cassandra wasn't having any of this brooding bad boy nonsense. She gripped his face in her hands and twisted until he was forced to look her in the eye. "This isn't just about me, you asshole. It's about us. All three of us."
He jerked his head out of her grasp. "Which seems like a pretty good reason for you to want to speak up if you've got a problem, and not lay that all at my feet, doll." The pet name hit like a hammer blow. "Aren't we both here for the same reason? To further our careers?" He coughed and looked away again. "Then why the hell wouldn't you just jump all over a full series?"
Cassandra's cheeks flamed. "You don't know?" She cupped her belly protectively.
He narrowed his eyes. "Isn't it a little too late for that?"
She rolled her eyes and laughed. "I'm not falling for the jerk routine, Arthur. You're not going to avoid talking to me by insulting me."
"I didn't insult you. I pointed out the obvious. You're here to further your career, and the baby is the best way you've got to do that."
"Well you sure do have me all figured out." she shot back. "So, Mr. Armchair Psychologist, let's do you next. I'm here to further my career, why are you here?" Me, her mind urged. Say you're here for me. But she batted that thought away so she wouldn't be disappointed with the answer and pressed on. "If you're not here for greater fame, then why do it at all? You're already a famous chef. You have a huge trust fund—I know all about the McClellan money and your cousin on the cover of Esquire. I need this. But you? You don't. So, if this isn't the next step in your ascent, then why bother?"
She held her breath. Whatever his answer was, she told herself, she would not lose her dignity. She would hold her head high even if he snarled at her and swaggered away, because then at least she'd know which version of Arthur McClellan was the real one.
She'd know once and for all he was not the man for her.
His answer was so long in coming she started to feel light-headed. She exhaled hard and turned back to him.
She blinked in surprise to see that instead of staring across the ocean or down at his feet, he'd been watching her the whole time. "What's Adele Crowley to you?" he asked.
"What? What does that have to do with anything?"
"It has a lot to do with everything, actually." Arthur took a step closer to her. "You react to her differently than you do everyone else. You're so poised and confident and in control of every situation, but seeing the way you reacted to her today really threw me. You wanted me to talk for you. You were like this scared little girl."
Cassandra stepped back. "I was not!"
"You were. And it was as if making her like you was a matter of life and death."
She pressed her lips together and blew out a resigned sigh. "She reminds me of my mother. A little." A tear fell onto her blouse, and she wiped it away, embarrassed. "She always made sure everything was perfectly put together. Probably because everything at home was always falling apart."
Arthur nodded slowly. "I thought it was something like that." The corner of his mouth tipped up. "You know who reminds me of my mom?"
"Please don't say Amy."
He snorted laughter. "She's probably turning over in her grave just knowing a woman uses such foul language."
Cassandra's heart stalled in her chest. "Your mother passed away?" How had she missed this? "When?"
"A few months ago." Some of the light went out of his beautiful eyes as they went far away.
"I'm so sorry."
"So am I." He looked down, and for a moment he looked just like a little boy who'd lost his mom instead of a big man. "And I'm also sorry because I can't, for the life of me, seem to be able to keep the last promise I made to her."
"What was that?"
He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. "She made me promise to stop torturing myself and just be happy." He touched her hair. "I'm kind of there."
She took his hand in hers and pressed it to her heart. "Arthur," she exhaled. "That's…a lot."
He made a sound that could have been laughter if it weren’t so resigned. "You probably won't believe me, but I used to be shy. Painfully so. My mom was a shy kid too, and she didn't want me to grow up with the same fears she felt kept her down all the time. So, she pushed me. Public speaking, Boy Scouts, every social thing you could stick a kid into, I was there."
"It must have worked, though, becau
se you're—"
"I hated it. Hated every second of it and hated my mom for pushing me. I just wanted to be left alone, and you know how kids are. When they smell weakness, they hone in on it like sharks to blood."
"What did they do?"
"Nothing, because before they could make fun of me, I made fun of myself. I beat them to the punch by being a dry, sarcastic asshole, and it worked. They accepted me. But only as the asshole. Not as…me." He looked at her hard. "Don't feel sorry for me. I did it to myself, and believe me, asshole has served me well." He took her hand again. "But I like to think I'm more than that. How about you, Cassandra? Do you think I'm more than that?"
"So much more," she gasped just before his lips slammed into hers. She cupped his face as he lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her back into the bedroom.
"You," he groaned in between kisses, "are amazing." They tumbled into bed, hands already tearing at clothes. "And I need you. You know how much I need you?" His words were tumbling out in half-formed thoughts and desperate promises as he wiped away the tears on her face with his thumb.
"Then have me," she begged. "Now, Arthur, right now." She gasped as he surged into her, then wrapped her legs around him to pull him in. She needed to feel so connected to him that she wasn't sure where her body ended and his began. She touched his face as he moved above her, and was surprised when her hand came away wet. "You can be happy," she promised him in breathless gasps as her pleasure mounted. "Right here, right here, right here."
Her promise became a plea as each perfect thrust sent her closer and closer to the brink. She buried her face in his neck and inhaled sharply, filling her lungs with his scent before screaming out his name. He clutched her close and shuddered with a ragged, desperate breath.
"I—" Whatever he was about to tell her was lost in a long, low groan that seemed to come from the deepest parts of him.
He fell to her side in a crumpled heap. For a long moment, his stared at nothing, a million miles away. It stretched on long enough that a little flicker of worry flared to life in Casandra's belly.
"Hey," she whispered. "Come back to me."
"Hey," he said, blinking. He smiled readily before folding her into his arms.
Being crushed against his chest should have felt safe and comforting. But that flicker of worry had ignited and was now blazing bright and hot. She knew now why Arthur seemed perpetually at war with himself. But knowing the reason for something didn't necessarily change anything.
"Your mom," she said, snaking her fingers up his chest.
"Not now?" he asked with a sigh. "Please? Just let me hold you for a while."
She pressed a kiss over his heart. "Of course."
"This is nice."
She hummed in agreement.
"I will say this about her. If my mom is looking down at me right now, I've got to look pretty happy."
Cassandra stiffened. "You look happy?" she squeaked.
He nodded against the top of her head and pulled her closer, but she pulled away. "What's wrong?" he asked.
How could she explain the dismay she'd just felt hearing his words? Did he want to look happy? Or did he want to be happy?
Or did he not know there was a difference?
13
His mother had looked so tiny in the hospital bed. The covers barely rose over her wasted body, and when she opened her mouth, Arthur thought she looked just like a baby bird.
But her voice, that deep, rich voice that had her singing on the men's side of the church choir when he was growing up, was still there. Her eyes fluttered open when he entered her hospital room. "Art," she said gravely, and he'd held his breath, ready for her to deliver news that was even more earth-shattering than the news that the cancer had spread. "Sit down."
He'd sat down nervously, and that's when he saw that the TV over her bed was showing the credits of a cooking show. "Turn that off," she commanded. When he obeyed, she looked at him gravely. "You're so much better than that guy."
“That guy” was the Taste Network's newest star, Grant Stahler, a big, jovial chef with a booming laugh and a cutesy catchphrase. “Happy food is good food,” he enthused at the end of every show.
He'd never met the man, but Arthur was pretty sure if he did, he'd punch him on principle.
"I thought I was doing the right thing," his mother said now. "And there's no denying you turned out well."
"Thanks, Mom."
"Your success makes all this easier," she said, waving a bony hand to take in the hospital bed, the morphine drip, her disease-wracked body. "But I can't help thinking that I made a mistake when I pushed you so hard."
"You didn't make a single mistake, Mom." Emotion made Arthur's throat tighten, threatening to choke him.
"I did. I put all the emphasis on your success. Instead of your happiness." Her hand gripped his with surprising strength. "Promise me, Art. Promise me that you'll be as happy as that man." She pointed to the TV. "He's a chef, just like you, but he smiles." Her faded eyes bored into him. "When was the last time you smiled, baby boy?"
The day before you told me it was terminal. He tried, failed, and then tried again, managing a watery smile for his mother, who smiled right back.
"There it is," she said, sounding suddenly exhausted. "Promise me you'll find a way to keep it there."
Arthur didn't like to think about what came next. The beeping, the panicked nurses, the doctor’s grave face. So, when he replayed it, he always ended the memory right there. With the promise he made at the moment she drew her last breath. He'd done a pretty terrible job keeping it.
But maybe that could change.
"Okay," he said now, to the group of hastily assembled producers. Adele Crowley sat at the head of the table after an overnight flight. "If this is what you're offering, then I'm going to do what I can to make it happen." He glanced at Cassandra. She gave him a tight-lipped smile and nodded.
A collective sigh of relief went up. Amy slammed her hand on the table. "All right then!" she barked into her ever-present headset. "Let's make it happen, people. We lost a whole day of shooting, and time is money!"
The sound of the panicked crew scrambling to set up again made Arthur laugh. But his smile faded when Amy slapped a sheet of paper in front of him. "What's this?"
"Today's scene list."
He ran his finger down the page. "I don't know what any of this means."
"I do," Cassandra piped up with a smile. She turned to him with a wicked glint in her eye. "Today I'm going to teach you about vision boards."
"That sounds like a threat."
"Call it a warning."
Arthur nodded gravely, biting back his instinctive sarcasm. Vision boards were Cassandra's thing, and he was good with his hands. His didn't really see the point in cutting out pictures and pasting them to poster board, but if that was what the producers wanted, that would be what he gave them.
His confidence lasted right up until the moment he exited hair and makeup and was led into a room with a table, two chairs, and a single computer.
He looked around for the craft supplies. "Where's the board?" he asked Cassandra.
"Here." She tapped the computer screen. "I'm going to teach you to use Pinterest."
Arthur let out a wary sigh. "Okay, wow. Not how I planned to spend my day, but sure. Show me." He sat in front of the computer.
Cassandra clicked a few buttons and then reached over his shoulder to type. Her hair tickled the side of his face, and her scent surrounded him.
"I don't see how I'm supposed to learn with all these distractions," he noted, reveling in being able to touch her on camera.
"Hush," she laughed, swatting at his roving hands. "Here. I titled your first board for you."
"Wedding Style. That gets right to the point, I guess."
"You want it to be searchable, so whatever you pin can be found easily and repinned by other people." She leaned back, depriving him of her scent. "Now all you have to do is find
the pictures you think represent your vision for this wedding."
"My vision?" He squinted at the screen as if he was missing some magic instructions. "But isn't this something Rory and Kendra should be doing?"
He turned around in his chair and was surprised to see Cassandra frowning at him. "No. This is our job."
"Time out. Cut." He waited for Amy to snatch her headset off with a sigh. "What am I supposed to be doing here?"
"Not my business, baby," Amy shot back. "Pin anything you want."
"Anything I want?" he repeated as the cameras rolled again. Which version of him were they looking for here? Was it Arthur the reformed bad boy and soon to be father? Was this supposed to be something that caused drama? Should he try to guess what Cassandra wanted to do? He twisted in his seat again. "I'm completely lost," he confessed, smiling what he hoped was a winning smile.
Cassandra barked out a short, snarky laugh. "I'm so glad the cameras are rolling. They just caught the first time in history a man has admitted that."
Stung, Arthur gripped the back of the chair. "Damn, kitty, watch those claws."
To his surprise, she didn't apologize. She rolled her eyes, and with a huff of frustration, she motioned for him to get up. "Guess I'll just do everything then," she griped as she sat. Then turned to him with a bright, false smile. "Let's start with appetizers," she sing-songed. "Do you maybe have a vision for those?"
It's like he's a different person again, Cassandra seethed as she angrily clicked her way through a random assortment of wedding decorations. She'd tried like hell to hold her tongue, but seeing Arthur undergo yet another personality transplant—today he seemed like he was playing the part of meek right- hand man to her—made her lash out. It was unprofessional, not to mention unfair, and she swore she would apologize. As soon as the cameras stopped rolling.
"And cut!" Amy yelled. Cassandra sighed with relief and leaned back from the computer. She took in a deep breath, readying her apology.
"That was great, baby." Amy's hand on her shoulder startled Cassandra, but not as much as the producer's wide, predatory smile. "You've got the right instincts for a series, let me tell you."
